


a long time ago, we used to be friends

by eliestarr



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Veronica Mars Fusion, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliestarr/pseuds/eliestarr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's been six months since her father's arrest, and Artemis Crock is tired of finding red spray paint on her car." or, a Veronica Mars AU, starring our favourite archer and Crock Investigations. written as a part of yj-exchanges' 2013 Christmas exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a long time ago, we used to be friends

There’s five minutes left to sixth period and she is certain she’s never getting married. You want an absolute? Well, there it is. Artemis Crock, spinster. She just doesn’t see the point. Sure, there’s that initial primal drive, hormonal surge, whatever you want to call it. Ride it out. Better yet, ignore it--because sooner or later the people you love let you down. They disappoint you. You believe in them, you trust them, and then you find yourself alone to clean up the mess they leave behind. Like medical bills, or overdue taxes, and a pair of broken hearts.

Not that the characters in _Pride and Prejudice_ had to worry about any of that. No, they all got happy endings. And being someone who doesn’t generally believe in happy endings, Artemis stopped listening some twenty minutes ago. Which makes it a little awkward when Mr. Carr calls on her sharply, a hint of a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

“Artemis?” Several heads swivel back to stare at her, but she straightens her shoulders and does her best to look alert.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you can tell us why the novel’s original title _First Impressions_ was symbolic?”

 _First impressions_ , her brain processes slowly. Vaguely, she pictures a tub of ice cream, a mother and daughter, and more hours of DVD special features than is likely healthy. Her mouth starts on a smile before the words have even formed. “Bad first impressions are what initially pose as an obstacle for the relationship between the main characters, Elizabeth and Darcy. He dismisses her at first based on her not being pretty enough, as well as her family’s social standing, while in turn, Elizabeth decides he’s arrogant and self-satisfied, resulting in her strong dislike of him. This sours their opinions of each other, which affects what they think of one another, and how they interact.”

She can see at least one or two students snickering out of the corner of her eye, but refuses to break eye contact with the teacher, ploughing on. “In fact, it’s not just them. For Jane and Bingley, as well as the Bennets as a whole and--”

“Thank you, Miss Crock,” Mr. Carr interrupts, and the smile he wears now looks impressed for the briefest of moments before it sours. “Mr. Mahkent, you can read that copy of _Maxim_ on your own time. Your own very private time.”

He turns, stalks back to his desk, and to her left, someone hastily shoves a magazine into his desk. When she looks over, Cameron’s face is nearly as red as his sweater, while the rest of the class erupts with laughter. Thankfully, it’s quickly drowned out by the sound of the bell.

“Don’t forget; your essays are due next Tuesday!” Mr. Carr yells over the din of books closing, chairs scraping backwards and the first slivers of chatter in the halls. “Have a good weekend!”

“Wouldn’t that be a nice change,” Artemis mutters, slipping out of class first and taking a left down around the corner to her locker. She dumps everything into her bag, slams the door shut with blink-and-you-miss-her speed, and actually thinks she might be making record time, weaving through students discussing whoever’s turn it is to throw a house party this weekend as she beelines for the exit at the end of the hall. She takes the stairs two by two, and it’s not until she’s halfway across the parking lot that she realizes just how wrong she is.

The yellow XTerra catches her eye first, glaringly out of place on this side of the parking lot, and not just for its colour. The front bumper is sprinkled with a group of juniors already immersed in their end-of-day degeneracy, smiles painted across everyone’s lips. Somewhere, a handful of warning bells start ringing, but Artemis ignores them and her classmates, heading for her car.

And that’s when she sees it.

There, in stark contrast to the black paint and tinted windows, are the words _Thievin’ Bitch_ , clear as day across her front windshield. She hears the squeal as someone slides off the SUV’s hood, and is sure that if she tries hard enough, she can even hear the bounce in his step.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were redecorating, Crock?” his voice splits the air between them, the layers of smug practically palpable. It rolls up her spine and triggers an involuntary shiver. “I would have brought donuts.”

“Spur of the moment,” she says, fingers gripping her bag’s strap so tight her knuckles are starting to turn white. “I woke up this morning and I just _hated_ everything, y’know?”

“I wouldn’t, no. I find it to be pretty pleasing when I roll out of bed and look in the mirror.” She can hear the others laugh, can just barely see a crowd gathering on the edges of the parking lot now, watching.

“Well, we can’t all be just a pretty face,” Artemis sighs dramatically, finally turning to look at the redhead in question, who stands just feet between his car and her. Her gaze pans across the others, too, and she finds the usual offenders; double the cheerleader, double the meaty quarterback, and even a surprise appearance by the court jester’s best friend and class president. My, my--gang’s all here.

She pieces together the very brightest of smiles, twirling her keys around her finger. “Good news is, I hear red _really_ does go with everything! So, unless you’d like to test that theory, West, I’d suggest you stay right where you are.” _Safe and sound with your little tittering friends_.

 _They were your friends once, too_ , a voice echoes scathingly in her mind. Artemis ignores it, stomps the rest of the way to her car, and doesn’t look once at them in the rearview as she tears out of the parking lot.

* * *

It takes her two hours, an extensive vocabulary of just about every nasty word she knows and two rolls of paper towels to wipe the red lettering from her windshield. By the time she’s done, she can barely remember the laughter of her former friends as she threw herself into her car and drove away. No, really--barely a passing memory now. Except that her hands keep twitching, aching to form fists and hit something until she feels better, so she supposes that’s kind of a lie.

She rubs a spot of red off her wrist as she steps into the house, and instantly feels a little better when the smell of dinner reaches her. She hears a loud thump from down the hall, and a moment later, a pit bull comes bounding towards her. Tail wagging, drool dripping from his jowls, he greets her affectionately, earning himself a laugh and a good scratch behind the ears.

“Oh, look at you,” she croons. “Who’s been a good boy, today? Who’s been a good boy?”

His ears perk, and his whole body vibrates with clear indication he thinks he’s been a good boy.

“Artemis, is that you?” her mother’s voice drifts out from the kitchen, and as she kicks off her boots, Paula appears in the doorway. “You’ve been out there a long time. I was starting to worry.”

“It’s nothing,” she answers, stowing her jacket in the closet. “Just some tune up on the car.”

“Tune ups involve red paint?” Her pulse ices, and her gaze flicks to the hallway mirror. Specifically, to the red smear along her jawline she very obviously missed, and she feels her cheeks fill with colour to match.

“It’s nothing,” she says, her lips curving into a smile that her mother inspects thoroughly. Seemingly convinced, Paula disappears into the kitchen and informs her that dinner’s just about ready. And so Artemis trudges to the bathroom to clean the rest of the paint off. As she scrubs at it, she mulls over how difficult it would be to get a yellow XTerra impounded without it tracing back to her. By the time she hears the clinking of plates and cutlery, she’s decided maybe tipping off the principal next round of locker checks would be a better tactic.

She dries her hands on her jeans and joins her mother in the kitchen, pausing only for the briefest of moments in the doorway when she sees that Paula has set out three places at the table. The same way she has every night since Jade walked out on them, as if she expects her eldest daughter to come waltzing back in the front door and sit down to dinner like nothing happened. And Artemis doesn’t blame her one bit.

For the first month, she thought the same. For three weeks she called everyone she knew, left Jade voicemail messages until it was full, and stayed up at night waiting for her. Then, the fourth week, she saw her at school from across the courtyard.

* * *

_“Jade?” the name barely left her lips and Artemis was in motion. Dodging around a pack of freshman, she headed for the mane of familiar black hair, a sort of urgent in her step. “Jade!”_

_For a hideous moment, she thought she might have been wrong. She feared she might have mistaken someone for her sister, a sighting brought about by wishful thinking. But then Jade turned, looking up at her younger sister, her face a mask of disinterest. “What?”_

_“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Artemis said, brows furrowing. “Where have you been?”_

_“Around,” Jade replied, rolling her shoulders into an easy shrug._

_“I’ve been calling. Mom’s been worried sick.”_

_“Has she? Pity I’ve been ignoring you, then.” The chuckle her older sister let loose sounded dry, dark, but it garnered a handful like it from the other people seated with her. Only then did Artemis scan her surroundings and take in the table’s other occupants. She knew most of their faces from the inside of the Happy Harbor Police Department’s database: Roy Harper, Raquel Ervin, their de-facto leader, Jackson “Kaldur” Hyde, and a handful of sophomores whose names she didn’t know. From B &Es and the odd robbery to assault and battery, the cumulative criminal charges dressed in leather and bad attitudes staring at her made the hair on the back of her neck stand._

_“What are you doing?” Artemis repeated._

_“What the hell’s it look like?” Jade snapped, her tone betraying her patience._

_“Something stupid,” Artemis spit back, and instantly regretted it when Roy stood up sharply, angry glare boring into her._

_“Do you have a problem, little girl?” he growled._

_She ignored him. “You need to come home.”_

_“That’s not home anymore,” Jade said coldly, rising to meet her sister eye-to-eye. “And you and Paula? You’re not family, either. Not as long as you still wear his name.”_

_Her voice failed her as Jade’s words sunk in, slowly. “W-What? What are you talking about?”_

_“You need her to spell it out for you, chica?” one of the sophomores barked, sly smile appearing over the edge of his yellow scarf._

_“Crocks aren’t welcome here,” Kaldur spoke, and all eyes turned to him at the back of the table, where he leaned against a cement block, one arm draped languidly over Raquel’s shoulder. “One would suspect they aren’t welcome anywhere in Happy Harbor, these days.”_

_“We ain’t got money for you to steal from us, like daddy,” another voice chimed in, but Artemis was too focused on her sister to register who’d spoken._

_“But--”_

_“It’s Nguyen,” Jade said by way of answer, falling into her seat again. “That man isn’t my father, Artemis. It’s about time I acknowledge that.”_

_Or lie about it, Artemis thought. She could feel an itch building in her fingertips, anxiety slowly melting into anger. When she spoke again, her voice rose to match it. “What about mom? What about me?”_

_“In this family, it’s every girl for herself. You’ll figure something out,” Jade smiled thinly. “You always did have his smarts.”_

* * *

Six months on, and Jade’s words still hang around. _Every girl for herself_. It makes her angry just thinking about it, and she’s spent a lot of time being angry. At her father, at her sister, and especially at herself. Because there her mother is, leaving out a place for the daughter who refused to come home, putting away leftovers after every meal, holding on to whatever hope she has left--all because Artemis had come home that day and told her _Jade just needs time_. She’d never had the heart to tell her mother Jade wanted nothing to do with them anymore.

She still doesn’t.

“Smells good,” Artemis smiles, grabbing her plate off the counter and heading for the living room. She picks her favorite armchair, finds the remote, and counts the seconds before her mother wheels in to join her. The dog settles at her feet, bridging the gap between the two women.

So she refuses to take away what little hope her mother has left when it comes to Jade. That doesn’t mean she has to play along.

“How was school today?”

“Good,” she says through a mouth full of pork and rice. Absently, she flips through the channels, trying to decide on background noise.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Artemis doesn’t need to look over to know she’s talking about the red paint again. She knew she wasn’t convinced. Careful, she shakes her head. “Nope.” She hits the news channel and freezes with her fork halfway to her lips.

_“--announced earlier today that Lawrence Crock has refused a deal from HHPD prosecutors that would have seen him serve a shorter sentence than the 15 years he was given last month in exchange for a guilty plea. Crock’s lead defense attorney, Temple Fugate, announced during a press conference that an offer was previously on the table. He refused to elaborate any further, citing a non-disclosure agreement between his client and--”_

The hand holding Paula’s plate begins to tremble ever so slightly, and her brows knit together to form a look of unease. It’s subtle, but Artemis catches it anyway. She clamps her thumb to the OFF button so hard she’s surprised the remote doesn’t snap. In one fluid move, she’s up and halfway to the kitchen. It’s so fast that she startles the dog, who’d just started dozing off. Sensing her anger, he trots excitedly after her. “Artemis?” her mother calls.

She shoves her plate into the fridge, then heads for the front closet. Her hunger makes itself known in the pit of her stomach, but she doesn’t much care--she’s lost her appetite. “Artemis, what are you doing?”

“I’m going out,” she responds, slinging her coat back on and reaching for her boots.

“But you just got home.”

“I’m just going for a walk, mom,” but even she can hear the lie in her voice. Which definitely means her mother can, too.

“Then why not take Brucely with you?” _Aaaand_ there it is.

She looks up from lacing her boots to see Paula’s steely gaze, and knows that she isn’t getting away with this one. With a sigh, she resigns herself to her fate, plucks the dog’s leash from the hook by the door, and clips it to him as he sits there, tail thumping happily against the floor. It brings something of a smile to her lips. “Alright, you. C’mon.”

He barks excitedly as they leave the house, and Artemis makes a note to head to the office tomorrow, instead.

* * *

Because bright and early Sunday morning is the perfect time to be seated in the middle of the office floor space, surrounded by paperwork. Artemis has been here over an hour already, and the floor is starting to feel pretty hard beneath her. Slowly, almost mechanically, she picks up a blue folder, flips through it, and tosses it into the box marked _trash_. Next to it, the _case files_ box leaves much to be desired, and looking at the mess around her, she can only assume it’s because most of them have been confiscated as evidence.

It makes her job easier, honestly.

When she completes the stack, she stands, stretching, and admires her work. Much of the initial clutter has been tidied, but there’s still quite a bit of work to do. There are filing cabinets and two desks that she has to go through, in addition to the mini-kitchen and trophy shelf. Sighing, she heads for the latter, picking up the rather empty _to sell_ box as she passes it. Artemis figures she may as well try to make a little money somewhere in all this.

“Yeah, like you ever played golf,” she scoffs, tossing the little gold figure into the box. She assumes that melting it down would be going overboard, and knows just the pawnshop that’ll be willing to give her scraps for it. Squinting, she realizes not for the first time that most of the trophies are from sports. “Like you ever played _any_ of these.”

A bell dings somewhere behind her, but it’s mostly masked by the sound of the trophy hitting the inside of the cardboard box. She doesn’t even realize it’s the front door until she catches sight of someone in her peripherals and swings towards the entrance, hackles raised. She’s met with a soft smile, a sort of timid wave and a girl attached to both that she’s never seen before.

Or maybe she has. It takes her a moment, but she’s pretty sure this is the girl that started at school this week. It takes her longer still to force out the words, “We’re closed,” as kindly as she can manage. She’s pretty sure she hung the sign out front, didn’t she? Artemis frowns, grip tightening instinctively on the box.

The girl gives the place a cursory glance, peeling off her gloves with her teeth and running long, thin fingers through her black locks. She then turns a bright smile on Artemis. “Hi,” one moment the girl’s halfway across the room, the next she’s standing before her, hand outstretched in greeting. “I’m Zatanna.”

“Artemis,” she replies, dropping one hand from the box to shake Zatanna’s. It’s quick, and stiff, and when she regains it, Artemis uses it to pluck another trophy from the shelf. She examines the large dent in the side a moment before turning and chucking it into the trash box. Zatanna still hasn’t moved.

“Look, it was nice to meet you, but uh, as you can see I’m a little busy,” Artemis tells her, glancing in her direction to add a pointed, “and we’re closed.”

The girl’s upbeat tune changes then, slowly, into something nervous and almost pleading. “I’m here about my dad—he’s missing.” Scratch that, _definitely_ pleading. “I was hoping you could find him.”

“Missing?” Artemis laughs, tiptoeing around incredulous. “You’ve been here a week.”

Zatanna seems to not notice. “It was his first day at Bryant College on Thursday. He’s the new Linguistics Professor—or at least, he’s supposed to be.” She fiddles with her gloves, telegraphing her unease. “He left me a note, and I thought he was just working late and leaving early, but when he didn’t come home Friday night, I called and Dean Wilcox told me he picked up his office keys but hasn’t been there since.”

There’s a split-second pause before Artemis sighs. “Look, I’m sorry, but we’re closed. Surely you’ve been in town long enough to know _why_.” Last she checked, variations on the story were still published every week the papers, and updates blasted the airwaves every night. Not to mention about half the school had seen her new paint job on Friday. “My dad can’t help you. You’re better off taking this to the police.”

“They said he has to be gone forty-eight hours before I can report him missing,” Zatanna tells her, rolling her eyes. “And since Dean Wilcox saw him…” she bites her lip, stepping forward. “Aren’t you his daughter? Word at school is that you’re pretty good at this detective thing, too.”

Artemis glowers, entirely familiar with the _word at school_ where she’s concerned. “That the only word?”

“The only one I care about.” The little reassuring smile Zatanna follows up with indicates it isn’t the only thing she’s heard, though. And with six months’ worth of gossip under their belt, she’s sure the students at Happy Harbor were more than a little delighted to share.

Which makes Artemis kind of surprised this girl’s still here. And, if she were being honest, a little intrigued. Because the city’s mysterious underbelly snatching up the newest college professor barely a week after he arrives? That has to be a record, or something.

Not that she’s saying that’s what happened, but it usually is.

“I’m sorry,” Artemis says finally, and she finds that she means it, too. “There’s nothing I can—”

“I’ll pay you,” Zatanna’s eyes widen, her voice rising by an octave. Her time is running out, as are her nerves. “The normal rate, same as any other client. After all, I’d be hiring your services as a detective.”

Artemis dumps the _to sell_ box on the desk with a huff. “Private Investigator,” she feels the need to correct, something she’d heard her father do a hundred times. The parallel leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but it does the opposite for Zatanna, whose tense posture relaxes slightly and she sighs.

“So does that mean you’ll accept?”

Reluctantly, Artemis realizes she already has.

* * *

No one at Bryant College gives them a second glance as they stroll down the east hallway towards Professor Zatara’s office. It takes Zatanna three tries with the key acquired from the Dean’s office before she unlocks it.

The office is dark, and it’s a moment before one of the girls finds the switch. They’re bathed in light, and as it rolls out across the room and away from them, it illuminates everything from towering bookshelves and a dark, oaken desk, to papers strewn about and long, black curtains closed tight.

“Nice place,” Artemis offers, her voice echoing off the emptiness. As she steps further in, eyes roaming, soaking in everything she can, Zatanna hovers by the door, looking nervous. She _mms_ a sort of agreement but remains quiet.

The majority of the room resembles what Artemis expects a new college professor’s office to look like his first week—untouched, undusted and relatively unfurnished. Of note, however, is the trunk in the far corner, upon which sits the kind of hat she’s only seen in old movies, a small box, and what looks like a couple of decks of cards. When she shoots Zatanna a curious look, the other girl flushes, a smile easing its way in.

“Magic—it’s kind of his hobby,” she says, and now the grin is full-blown. “He used to put on shows at the children’s hospital back home every month.”

She finds the grin contagious before long. “That’s really sweet.”

Artemis has never been a believer, or even remotely a fan, when it comes to magic. Having been taught many things by her father before she hit double digits, she’d learnt all too soon how to spot a lie, a fib, even a trick (and especially how to spin one yourself). Things like magic and fairy tales quickly lost their shiny appeal, replaced instead by Nancy Drew books and the latest spy-camera gear and maybe more than once, lock-picking 101 with daddy dearest.

Investigating (because it sounds far less ridiculous than _detecting_ ) has been firmly seated in the spotlight for a great portion of her life, and yeah, if she’s being honest while she’s at it—it’s because she’s _good_ at it. This is likely where her theme song would start, if she were into that sort of thing.

Because at first glance, most of the papers appear to be academic-related: forms and syllabuses and enough words to give her a headache. But none of them are in any logical order, strewn about haphazardly, and it isn’t until Artemis catches sight of a manila envelope, shoved between _Latin Pronouns 1023E_ and a staff memo about the importance of something less relevant to her interests, that she knows why.

Carefully, she plucks it from between the covers, holding it aloft and tilting it to get a better look. It’s thick, a little bulkier than she was expecting, and it’s addressed to _Giovanni Zatara_. Artemis thinks it’s safe to assume that’s the Professor Zatara from the door’s name plaque. The seal is broken, and she tips it sideways, spilling the contents onto the desk.

“Photographs,” she says, brows furrowing as she paws through them. A good handful comes sliding out of the envelope, and from the looks of it, they all have a recurring element. She hears careful footsteps as Zatanna finally crosses the room to join her.

“These are of me,” Zatanna says, and her tone indicates a bit of distress.

“And some are old,” Artemis notes, holding up one where Zatanna looks like she’s barely driving-age, at best. She picks up the envelope to examine again. “No stamps or return address, so either he asked for these, or they were delivered by hand.”

“But why does he have them?” Zatanna asks, and her confusion is palpable.

Her question goes ignored, and Artemis starts her assault on the drawers, next. All are empty but one, which contains a single picture frame. The glass is cracked, but the photo of the woman who looks remarkably like Zatanna is still clearly visible. When she holds it up for the latter to see, her eyes go all misty, and several alarm bells go off in the back of her mind.

“That’s my mom.” She takes the frame, frowning. “She passed away when I was very young. This—this is his favourite picture of her.” Her fingers trace the jagged crack that runs from one corner to the next. “I got it for him for his birthday three years ago. He—he never treats it badly.”

Again, Artemis chooses not to comment. Instead, she shuffles some of the papers aside, away from the base phone at the corner of the desk. Though there’s no blinking light to indicate a message, there is a pad of notepaper and a pencil. She runs her fingers over the notepad, feels an indent, and grins, forever thankful that some clichés pan out.

Picking up the pencil, she scrapes it across the surface of the notepad, waiting for a string of letters—maybe even a proverbial bone—to appear. And she’s rewarded with a timestamp (7:00 pm) and location (All-Star Lodge). She nearly triumphantly huzzahs before her phone goes off.

A long, whining tone indicates it’s her mother calling. She considers not answering, but quickly remembers she’s meant to be at the library, working on a paper. At least, that’s what she’d told her mother when she’d left— _yikes_ five hours ago! She slides the lock open, touching it to her ear.

“Hey, mom.”

“ _Artemis, I am starting dinner soon. Will you be home?”_

Her gaze flickers to Zatanna. In the quiet room, her loud phone speaker lets sound travel, reverberating off the walls. The other girl deflates a little, but nods. When Artemis relays the answer, her mother responds happily and chatters away excitedly until Artemis reminds her that she can’t make it home for dinner if her mother holds her up.

By the time she hangs up, Zatanna hasn’t moved from her spot, eyes glued again to the cracked photograph. “I found something,” Artemis says, and her head snaps upwards. She indicates the notepad. “The All-Star’s just on the outskirts of town, perfect meeting place for handoffs or trades.”

Zatanna’s nose scrunches up. “What do you mean?”

“He made plans to meet someone there at seven Thursday night, or Friday, even. It’s likely the person, or people, who sent him those pictures.” She draws out a pause, letting Zatanna absorb, maybe even form her own conclusions, before continuing. “Maybe they asked for money, maybe they just wanted to talk and used this to catch his attention. Who knows?”

“Wow,” Zatanna says, stepping back and blinking, eyes bright. “You really get right to it, don’t you?”

“I don’t charge forty-five dollars an hour for nothing,” Artemis quips, and they share a laugh before she sobers. “Look, I’ve got to head home. What do you say if, tomorrow, after school, we drive out there and see what we can find?”

Zatanna seems a little relieved when she answers. “Deal.”

* * *

It’s small, round, and smothered in gravy, and Artemis is about ninety percent sure it’s not meat. If she had no taste buds, no nose, and maybe even no eyeballs while she was at it, the cafeteria’s Monday Mystery Meat might not be so bad. As it happens, she’s sitting at her table in the far corner of the courtyard, poking at what is apparently being marketed as food these days, wishing not for the first time her school didn’t totally suck.

And that’s when she smells the pizza. _Oh no,_ she thinks. _Not today_.

Her stomach grumbles before her lips produce a groan, and against her better judgment, she rakes her gaze towards the front gates, where a VW Bug with a giant, plaster Godzilla affixed to the top has come to a screeching halt. The driver is already out and halfway to the gate with his towering stack of pizza boxes when Artemis starts salivating. Especially when the guy walks right past her, a nice little cloud of delicious, heavenly taste floating after him.

She doesn’t bother to watch where the boxes go, because she knows. She knows because it’s the same people it always is, the only people who can afford that kind of daily service—the only people who matter. And she stopped being one of those people a long time ago.

“You okay?” Artemis nearly jumps, and she looks over to see Zatanna is seated at the other end of her table, fork carving out a chunk of something that looks remarkably like mashed potatoes. She has to blink once or twice to make sure she’s seeing right, because a companion at her table? Well, that’s a strange sight indeed.

“What?”

Zatanna smiles a little. “You were drooling a little.”

Her brows crease together, forming an angry frown. “Did I say you could sit here?” It takes a moment for the words to fully register, and by then, the other girl’s smile has been wiped clean, replaced by a sort of injured bewilderment as she puts down her fork and gathers her tray.

“You didn’t, but I just—I mean, I figured since—”

_I’m new here._

_You’re the only person I know._

_I’m paying you to find my dad_.

The words fill themselves in, and Artemis is struck with tightness in her chest comparable to guilt. She quickly barks out a nervous laugh, waving her hands in surrender. “Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I just—you probably don’t want to sit—”

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” The smell of pizza is stronger, suddenly, and Artemis curses for not anticipating his approach sooner. “Look who’s made a friend!”

She almost thinks about not rising to the bait, about letting it go just this once. Really, she does. “Well,” she smiles upwards, baring her teeth, “some things you just can’t buy.” Her eyes flicker to the piece of pizza dangling lazily in his hand. “Not even with Bumblebee Bucks.”

His face lights up, and he takes an exaggerated bite of the slice before holding it towards her. “’m’sorry,” he says, mouth full, “did you wan’ some?”

“I’m all set, thanks,” Artemis replies, motioning to her lunch tray with a surprising lack of disdain. She’s trying very hard, and he really isn’t. He looks over her, at Zatanna, and smiles as he swallows the slice of pizza practically whole.

“More than just Mystery Meat around this fine Monday,” he hums, and a hand reaches across the distance between them. “Who’s this lovely specimen? Must be the new girl I’ve heard about. I’m Wally. Wally West.” The way his name rolls off his tongue would make one think he’s just missing a double-o number and a fancy suit in there somewhere, but Artemis knows better. It’s all just for show.

“Zatanna Zatara,” the other girl replies, sounding unsure as she takes his hand, eyes flickering briefly to Artemis as she does.

“Ooh, alliteration,” he all but sings, and she’s sure if she bothered to look, Artemis would find him beaming. A moment later, it doesn’t matter, because he leans down to eye-level beside her, and knocks his elbow into her. “I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself sooner; you might’ve avoided having to be seen with Crock for company.”

Zatanna’s nose scrunches, and her face reflects her confusion. She doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. “At least it means she has standards—and I’m pretty sure your only requirement is having none, right?” Artemis says, not missing a beat.

Wally laughs snidely. “And yours are what, her lunch money every Tuesday and Thursday, a credit card or two, some tax receipts, and hey, maybe even her firstborn?”

“What’s a girl to do with all of those?” she hums, tapping her fork against her tray, a sign of her increasing frustration with him. “Expose a few dirty secrets? Humiliate some political figures? Hey, maybe even ruin a marriage?”

His smile falters only for a moment, thinning, but she counts it as a victory nonetheless. She doesn’t mean to bit back quite so hard, to throw issues in his face that she knows very little about and that are all too personal, but her hands still keenly remember scrubbing themselves raw in the face of angry red spray paint, and she finds it hard to feel bad.

Wally straightens, steps back, and claps his hands together in front of him. “Well, any friend of Crock’s…” he trails off, chuckling like the statement itself is a joke, “just doesn’t know any better yet.” He bows as he exits, then turns and follows the smell of pizza back to his table. Zatanna watches him go, then looks back to Artemis, frowning.

“What was _that_ about?” she asks after a moment, and sullenly, Artemis finally takes a bite of her lunch. Her nose wrinkles, but before she can open her mouth to respond, Zatanna has launched several other questions her way. “Okay, wait. In order: what are Bumblebee Bucks, who is he, and why did I feel like the audience for a very aggressive flirt-off?”

She snorts so hard she almost regrets choosing to eat the mystery meat. Her immediate reflex is to correct Zatanna, but figures there’s no harm in humouring her, for the moment. “The school board closed campus last year after a handful of teachers complained about students returning from lunch on more than just Red Bull and Pixy Stix,” she explains, intermittently shoveling food into her mouth, if only to put an end to the gnawing that began in her stomach the moment she smelled pizza. She jabs a free thumb over her shoulder in the direction Wally retreated. “Of course, when the sons and daughters of the village elders complained about the cafeteria food, the powers that be implemented the Bumblebee Bucks Bulletin. Earn enough Bucks and you can have your food delivered.”

Artemis chances a look over her shoulder at the group in question and finds nothing new. Big smiles. Jocularity. High fives. Hair tousling. It makes her stomach turn. “Look at ‘em,” she mutters. “Like an ethnically-cleansed Gap ad.” She shakes her head, returning her attention to her lunch, and Zatanna. “Would you like to guess how you earn Bumblebee Bucks?” She holds up her fork, a piece of meat speared on the end. Zatanna stares for a moment before shrugging.

“Good grades?”

“Nope,” Artemis says, and the fork dips.

“Community Service?”

“If only,” she says, and the fork dips again.

Zatanna’s eyes flash back to the table for a long minute, and she scans the seated individuals. Artemis can see her piecing it together, looking for common denominators, or maybe just blatant stereotypes. Either one would suffice, she thinks.

Then, carefully, Zatanna answers. “Sports? Cheerleading? Student council?”

“Very good!” she exclaims, and shoves the fork into her mouth. Then, she slides her tray right, following it as she moves into the seat next to Zatanna, assuming a position where she can observe and commentate without drawing attention. “Figures though, doesn’t it?” Carefully, she points her fork in the direction of the uniformed cheerleader sitting at the end, her long legs crossed at the middle, her blonde locks spilling down her back. “Bette Kane, her dad’s a professional tennis player.”

Next is another cheerleader, this time seated in a boy’s lap, her vibrant red hair a stark contrast to his dark black, her bright smile to his quiet expression. “Megan Morse, head cheerleader. Absent is her mother’s family name, Johns—because with a Principle Johns around, wouldn’t that be convenient?”

The boy whose arms wrap around Megan doesn’t have a smile that quite reaches his eyes, but he does his best, for what it’s worth. Though his back is to them, his letterman jacket in the school’s black and yellow is still clearly visible. “Her boyfriend, and the other half of Happy Harbor’s darling couple, football captain, Conner Luthor. His father’s a software millionaire and CEO of LexCorp.”

Across the table from him sits Wally, who’s serenading the couple with a crude rendition of _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_ at decibels that likely aren’t human. “That crowning gem you’ve met—and you might’ve even had the pleasure of meeting his father on your trip to the friendly neighbourhood police station last Friday?” Artemis asks, glancing over at Zatanna. The girl looks pensive a moment, before her eyes widen. “Yes, that _was_ the West family name on the Sheriff’s door.”

And finally, they come to the noisy table’s last member, a boy sporting a shag of black hair and an amused smile aimed in Wally’s direction. Artemis opens her mouth to complete her summary, but hesitates just a moment, and watches as his attention flickers her way. It’s only for a split second, but their eyes meet, and she’s entirely too aware of the seconds stretching between them until he looks down and away, and her next fork stab is a little more aggressive.

Zatanna pushes a small laugh through her nose. “I had it all wrong,” she says, shaking her head. “I had you pegged for the loud-mouthed, hate-to-love-you boy, a real sort of challenge.” She aims her fork at Artemis, accusatory despite her widening grin. “But you, missy, are a softie, aren’t you? A real marshmallows and corny jokes kinda gal, huh?”

Her throat feels thick, and Artemis is pretty sure her heart just plummeted into her stomach, but she swallows once, clears her throat, and puts on a smile. “You caught me,” she says, shrugging. “I’d have corrected you sooner, but the idea of anyone mistaking West and I for _anything_ was too good to pass up.”

When she continues, it’s through rose-coloured glasses. “His name’s Dick Grayson. Son of the city’s wealthiest CEO, Bruce Wayne, a natural at just about all the athletics, and a total troll.” Zatanna raises a brow, curious. “I mean that in a knee-slap, sense of humour sort of way,” Artemis says brightly, then sours, “and the other way, too.”

Silence falls between them as she chances another look, and watches as he reaches for another slice of pizza and Wally gives him a shove that almost knocks him out of his seat. Conner’s next comment has them both clutching at their stomachs with laughter, and Artemis makes a sort of disappointed noise in the back of her throat. “He was a more attentive boyfriend when we were all friends—when that was my table and pizza was my meal of choice.” She takes one last stab at her lunch before pushing the tray away from her, rolling her eyes. “Before an anonymous tip led Wally’s father to arrest mine, and my family became the local grape vine’s favourite topic.”

She doesn’t need to say that’s when it all fell apart, when everyone turned their backs and started looking at her like she’d been in on it—like she’d helped her father steal thousands of dollars from clients and families in Happy Harbor, leaving some bankrupt, and others, like the Wests, shattered. It hadn’t helped that she’d stood by Lawrence at the time, that she’d believed him when he told her he’d done it to help pay for her mother’s medical bills. But then the money disappeared after he was arrested; all trace of it vanished, and along with it, so did her trust. It had hurt far more than her friends dropping her like a hot coal and effectively ostracizing her.

So Artemis had decided that day she didn’t need them, or anybody, but her mother, her dog, and herself. After all, it was _every girl for herself_ —isn’t that how Jade had spun it? She’d closed up, drawn herself into a shell and built up her walls, staying away from anyone and watching their cruel words bounce off her like they meant nothing. Because they didn’t—not anymore.

Zatanna remains quiet beside her a moment, nearly long enough for her to regret saying anything. She’s entirely not a people person, and though she’s unsure why she’s told this girl anything as of yet, she’d bet a fair amount of money on it being because she hasn’t had anyone to talk to in such a long time. “I’m sorry,” she says finally, face darkening.

And some days, Artemis thinks she might be too.

* * *

It’s already getting dark by the time they make it to the motel, the sun just barely visible over the tip of the All-Star Motel’s neon sign. Artemis pulls into the first spot by the front office, taking the time to scan the other parked cars and their license plates. Nothing stands out to either girl, so they clamber out, taking the place in. Most of the place looks old, lived-in, dark under the moonlight. The only light shines through the office window, a table lamp clearly visible from the parking lot that flickers every six seconds.

Zatanna shivers ever so slightly, and it causes Artemis to laugh. “Creepy motels not your style, huh?”

“The Movie Channel really likes Psycho reruns,” she replies.

“So, how do you want to play this?” Artemis asks as they step towards the front office, slowly. “Good cop, bad cop? Predatory and intimidating? Doe-eyed and lots of tears?”

The other girl blinks at her several times before speaking. “What?”

Artemis’s lips peal into a sly grin. “Watch and learn, newbie.” And then she frowns, thoughtfully. “Grasshopper? Padawan? Apprentice? What _is_ the magician’s term?”

It elicits a laugh from Zatanna, which is what she was going for.

She shoots a cursory glance through the window to gage her audience, then decides on a tactic, and throws the door open. By the time she makes it to the counter, she’s wearing a mask of distress, tears glisten in her eyes, and her voice is an octave higher than normal when she speaks.

The clerk looks absolutely bewildered when she thumps her hands against the counter, loudly. “I need some help!” she all but shrieks, throwing in a sniffle for good measure.

“W-What seems to be the problem?” the clerk stammers, wide-eyed. He sounds nervous, startled, and that’s just what she’d hoped for.

“I came here about a month ago with a guy, and—” she sniffles again, her words echoing off the walls of the tiny office, shaking. “And now I—I’m pregnant!”

His mouth forms an ‘O’ shape that quickly becomes a vocal “Ooookay?”

Artemis brings a hand up, touching her forehead and hovering there a moment. “And I—well, it’s pretty embarrassing, but I don’t remember the guy’s name very well, or what he looks like.” She laughs, but it comes out more of a half-sob. “Tequila. Never again.”

The guy nods emphatically. “What can I do to help?” She almost smiles—she’s got the poor sap hook, line and sinker.

“Well, my friend and I here were wondering if we could take a look at the footage from your camera,” she says, sniffling. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Zatanna wave shyly.

“Camera?” he chuckles, sounding nervous.

Artemis points to the smoke alarm hung in the corner that’s sporting a large, thick cable that runs along the ceiling and disappears into the back room behind him.  “They usually run on batteries, not electricity,” she says, and when he blinks, dumbfounded, she has her bottom lip tremble, her voice crack as she continues, “Please. I have no idea how to get through this without some help from the father and I—It would be really really great if I could find him.”

It takes him a moment, but then he’s nodding again, backpedaling to the doorway, talking with his hands. “I’ll see what I can do. Just give me one minute!”

The moment he vanishes into the back, Artemis moves. She swings around the counter, hands grasping the registry book an instant later. Placing it between her and Zatanna, she flips pages backwards, hunting for last Friday. A smile forms on her lips when she glances up to see Zatanna staring at her with a raised brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, but her tone of admiration betrays her. So Artemis tries again. “You just, uh—you’re pretty scary, you know? Scary clever, I mean.”

She beams, and just for a moment, she remembers why she enjoyed learning everything she could from her father, why she liked helping him with cases, and tackling some of them herself. She remembers looking up at the Crock Investigations sign above his office with pride, remembers unwrapping the name plate for her desk, remembers this feeling of excitement filling her bones as she chipped away at a mystery.

She shakes it all off with a nervous laugh. “Game’s not over yet—your dad’s name isn’t in here.”

“What?” Zatanna steps closer, looking down at the book, eyes scanning over the names decorating last Friday’s page, not finding _Giovanni Zatara_ anywhere. She seems to deflate the longer she stares at the page, and Artemis is just about to put it back in its place when she makes a noise that advises against it. Her finger meets the page at one entry, just before 6:00 PM, and her eyes widen. “I know that name.”

Artemis squints at the messy scrawl. “John Constantine?”

“He’s—he’s an old friend of my father’s,” she explains, but she doesn’t get much further than that. Artemis snaps the book shut, slides it back into place, and has returned to her spot against the counter seconds before the receptionist comes back into the room, looking glum.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “We only keep video surveillance for two weeks.”

Artemis’s sniffles become full-blown sobbing rather quickly, and thankfully, Zatanna takes the hint. “Thank you for your help,” she says, shuffling them towards the door. “We’re so sorry to have bothered you.”

Then, outside: “Did you get a room number?”

Artemis straightens, grinning. “Of course.” She points across the parking lot and up a bit. “212. Corner room.”

After checking that the car’s locked, the girls climb the stairs towards the second floor, and carefully approach the final room on the right. After a moment’s hesitation, Zatanna knocks.

Silence.

So she knocks again.

It takes them six minutes and three tries for them to decide that no one is home. While the news makes Zatanna deflate, it only serves to amplify the bounce already present in Artemis’s step.

She approaches the window, and feels around with the tips of her fingers until she finds the right edge. Then, carefully, she pulls a small, metal bar from her jacket, and slides it through the tiny gap beneath the window and sill. “Where did—“ Zatanna starts, but hasn’t the time to finish, because the lock clicks and Artemis makes an excited noise. “What are you doing?”

“ _Investigating_ ,” Artemis says, a grin dancing across her lips as she slides the window open, gestures for Zatanna to keep watch, then disappears inside.

Her eyes adjust rapidly to the dark room, and she finds the bed with ease, making sure that this John guy simply isn’t lying in wait. But the sheets are made up, and the room has a cold, empty chill to it, so she stands up straight, taking in her surroundings. The place is a mess, clothes on nearly every inch of the floor, and the distinct, thick smell of smoke hangs in the air. The source is an ashtray sitting on the table in the center of the room, filled to the brim with cigarette butts and surrounded by large, dark-coloured rectangles.

As Artemis moves closer, she recognizes them as more photographs of Zatanna. She gingerly picks one up and slides her phone from her pocket, using it as a flashlight (and silently cursing the fact that she left hers in the trunk.) It looks just like the others, with Zatanna as the focal point, but this one looks newer, more recent, and it takes her a moment to see why.

“This is from July,” she whispers, because she spots the banner hung in the background of the frame, announcing the upcoming Fourth of July parade downtown. They hadn’t lived far before they’d moved to Happy Harbor, Zatanna has mentioned once already, and she and her father had come numerous times in the summer looking at places before they’d bought something, so Artemis suspects this is one of those times.

Still, something about the image feels strange, almost familiar to her.

She doesn’t have the time to figured out why, because in the next moment, the door bangs open, and Artemis whirls around to see a man framed in the doorway. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t need to. Coming back to find a strange girl snooping around your motel room? That’s grounds enough to make anyone angry.

He moves first, hand arching upwards, but Artemis is faster, pulling her Taser from her jacket and allowing the sparks to dance across it as a warning. She realizes how stupid this is—after all, _she_ broke into _his_ room—but she’s trapped between him and an exit, and there’s no way she’s comfortable with that. A tense moment trickles by, neither moving nor saying anything, before a figure bursts past him, nearly bowling him over as she rushes to stand between them.

“Hang on!” Zatanna shouts. “We’re not dangerous, we just came here to ask you a few questions about my dad!”

There’s a stagnant pause before the lights go on, and Artemis feels a little silly when she realizes that’s where he was headed in the first place. His confusion is practically palpable as he stares at them, squinting, the gears turning in his head.

“What happened to keeping watch?” Artemis whispers as he stands there, considering them.

“He showed up and I hid,” Zatanna replies, giving her a sheepish backwards glance. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Zatanna?” he asks, cutting off Artemis’s potential reply. His confusion hasn’t yet left him, and it’s emphasized by his thick, British accent. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to ask you the same thing, Constantine,” she says, and there’s a sort of nervous tremble in her voice. Artemis steps forward.

“And why you were meeting her father here.” When his eyes widen slightly, she motions to the photographs on the table. “And why you have these. Did you send him the ones at his office?”

Zatanna turns and notices them then, gasping as she plucks one from the stack. “More?” She gives him a look. “Why do you have these? Where’s my dad?”

Constantine throws his hands up, defensive, and half chuckles. “Whoa, easy girls. At least let me sit down for the interrogation.” He closes the door behind him, and walks slowly to the nearest chair, taking a seat after the drapes his coat over the back. There’s an easy smile playing on his lips as he speaks. “Zatanna, you look good. You’ve grown. How’ve you been?”

“Good, but I’ll be better once I find my dad,” she says, and her fingers curl inwards anxiously. “He never came home from work Friday.”

“And you’re here looking for him?” He sounds perplexed, surprised even.

“Notepad in his office had this place and a meeting time,” Artemis fills in, stepping around Zatanna to get a better look at Constantine. He’s disheveled, mid-forties and dressed like he might’ve been sleeping in a bus shelter rather than the motel’s bed. “We found your name in the motel’s registry.”

“Did you?” he arches a brow, crossing his arms. “The same way you _found_ yourself in my locked room?”

The girls exchange glances, and Constantine laughs. “I remember you liking magic tricks and dead languages, Zee, not my line of work.”

“Line of work?” Artemis asks, brows furrowing.

“He’s a detective,” Zatanna answers before Constantine, another sheepish grin spreading across her lips. “Did I forget to mention that?” Artemis gives her a look.

“That’s why your dad was meeting with me. He called me a month ago to say something was up. I was out of town for a case, but he said he was forwarding these pictures he’d received to my office. He wanted to know who’d sent them to him, and why,” Constantine explains, arms folded behind his head. “I’ve been looking into it since.”

“And?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing solid. Not much of anything, really. I can tell you where most of them were taken, but that’s about it.”

The words ring sort of hollow, without conviction, but Artemis isn’t sure why. Could he be lying? If he’s a Private Eye like her—or rather, her father—he’d be expertly skilled at it, and there’s no way he’d trigger her bullshit detector. But still, something feels off. “So where is he?” she asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Hmm?” Constantine hums, looking her way.

“If you haven’t found anything, and that’s what you told him when he saw you on Friday—then why hasn’t he come home? Why is he missing?” With every word, Artemis sounds more hostile, suspicious, but the man only shrugs.

“I couldn’t tell you. We were going over the photos when I told him I didn’t have any solid leads, and he noticed something about one of the pictures. Freaked him right out. He gathered up most of them in a haste but left those,” Constantine tells them, motioning to the photographs left scattered on the table. “Didn’t say a word, just shot out of here like a bat out of hell.”

But Artemis remains unconvinced.

And twenty minutes later when they’re back in her car and pulling out of the motel’s parking lot, she tells Zatanna as much. To her surprise, the other girl nods. “That’s not like my dad,” she admits. “He wouldn’t have just bolted without warning like that. Least of all not from Constantine—he’s one of his oldest friends, and if he hired him to help find whoever took the photos of me…he wouldn’t just leave him out of the loop like that. What if it were dangerous?”

“Maybe that’s why he left him?” Artemis suggests, shrugging. “I don’t know; I don’t feel like that guy was giving us all the info. I feel like he was holding back.”

“So what do we do about it?”

“Nothing. At least, not directly,” she reaches into the back and dumps the envelope of pictures from Constantine’s motel room into Zatanna’s lap. When the other girl gives her a questioning look, she grins. “I snagged them on the way out. He was too busy lighting a smoke and trying to shoo us from his room that he never noticed. A bit sad, really.” She turns right onto the main road and shoots Zatanna a serious look. “Tomorrow I dig deeper.”

* * *

Constantine’s photos turn out to be a little different than the ones collected from Professor Zatara’s office. Amongst a few new shots lie a handful of duplicates, blown up and somewhat sharpened. The difference is rather noticeable, because Zatanna ends up not being the subject in more than half of them. Instead, the focus seems to be on another person who appears frequently in the background of most of the recent photographs.

Thought none of the angles are clear, she can make out long black hair and curves that lead her to assume it’s a woman. It only leaves her with more questions. Was she following Zatanna? Is she involved with the person who took the pictures? Why did Constantine think she was important enough to blow up the photographs to get a better look?

In the end, she gets nowhere, and has to shove her case notes into her bag when the guidance counselor finally calls her name. Sluggishly—because she’d rather be anywhere else, thank you—she makes her way into the office, smiling politely at Ms. Lance.

“Take a seat, Artemis,” she says, shuffling some papers into the file on her desk and closing it, folding her hands together on top. She offers her a warm smile that isn’t reciprocated. “Do you know why I called you in today?”

“My mom said you wanted to discuss my schedule and my attitude,” Artemis replies, and winces because it comes off a tad too petulant. What a great start to a conversation about _just that_. “Not necessarily in that order.”

“I did, yes,” Ms. Lance nods, leaning back in her chair. “It’s come to my attention that you’re not incredibly involved at school. Your grades are great, but your classroom etiquette leaves much to be desired. You fall asleep a lot, or daydream, and though you’re very smart and know your work, your heart doesn’t exactly seem in it.”

“Gee, Ms. Lance, tell me how you really feel,” she chuckles, hugging her books tighter to her chest. When the woman shoots her a look, her laugh turns sheepish. “Sorry. Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

She knows the words are a reflex, meant to humor the counselor, but they backfire almost immediately when she realizes that’s _exactly_ what Ms. Lance was hoping to hear. She smiles, plucking a single sheet of paper from the file, and holds it out to Artemis, who denotes loudly that it’s a schedule. “Your new one,” Ms. Lance informs her proudly. “I think it would be best if you took an independent study course to get you more involved, more interested in your schoolwork and community. I’ve seen you around with your camera before, and so I had the idea that the newspaper might be a good fit. They’re in need of a good photographer.”

Gingerly, she takes the schedule from the counselor, and frowns down at it, dread building in her chest. Her fears are confirmed all too quickly as she notices the only spare she had this semester (alright, so it was study hall, but it’s basically the same thing) has been filled by _journalism_ _3E_ , which happens to have started fifteen minutes ago. She makes a face, as if she can disgruntle the news away, but it doesn’t do her any good. Ten minutes later, she’s out of the office and heading down the west hallway to class.

She knows the moment she steps through the doorway that this won’t be a good fit at all.

“Crockalicious!” Wally West calls from the far corner of the room, attracting everyone’s attention and subsequently spotlighting her. The only one who doesn’t stare is Dick, who looks up long enough to see her, then returns to his computer screen, shoulders hunching as if it’ll hide him from view. “What a sight, everybody—Miss Crock gracing us with her presence at the student newspaper, a free, informative community that she can in no way profit from. Give her a round of applause, will you?”

“That’s enough, Mr. West,” Mr. Kent, the journalism teacher, says. He offers her a sympathetic smile. “Hi, Miss Crock. Dinah said you’d be joining us. Handy with a camera, I hear?”

“Did I hear him say _handsy_?” Wally stage-whispers, eliciting a giggle from two sophomores girls beside him. Mr. Kent either doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to, handing Artemis a sheet of paper with a mock-layout of this week’s front page, a large, empty slot where a picture should be.

“Your assignment. The cheerleading squad is doing a bake sale Friday at the children’s hospital, after school.  Are you free to take a couple pictures?”

“Sure,” she nods, though the enthusiasm isn’t there. She takes the paper from him and finds herself a seat, regretfully within earshot of Wally and the giggling sophomores.

“Did you hear about Sandsmark getting caught making out with Jaime Reyes at Cissie’s party last weekend?” one girl says, not bothering to keep her voice to a whisper. “I totally thought she wasn’t into guys anymore?”

“And I totally thought he was?” the other girl exclaims, looking shocked. “Didn’t he start seeing that new kid this summer before school? Bart something?”

“Ladies, c’mon now, don’t be so narrow-minded,” Wally chuckles. “Everyone’s entitled to switch things up now and again.”

She almost lets it go—really, she does. “You mean Bart Allen?” She leans back in her chair to see the three of them clearer. “Isn’t he your second cousin or something, Wally? That’s nice that you’re supporting him like that. I think it’s really sweet.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but he doesn’t get the chance to respond, either. One of the girls—and Artemis vaguely recognizes her from the morning updates, delivered live on TVs in nearly every classroom, a Linda something or other—gets there first.

“But you know what, Artemis? No one cares what you think anymore. Not since you stabbed all your friends in the back.” Wally’s eyebrows arch so high they disappear into his hairline, and he looks like he’s really holding in that laugh when Artemis grins.

“You seem to care a bit what I think.” But it’s clear to her that’s not whose opinion matters to the girl. In fact, he chimes in at the perfect moment.

“Tell me the truth, Artemis. Did you sign up for newspaper so you could be closer to Dick?” Wally grins, clapping his best friend on the back. To his credit, Dick doesn’t even acknowledge him; he just continues to stare at his computer screen, fingers flying across his keyboard.

Artemis bats her eyes, not missing a beat. “No, I’m here so I can be closer to _you_. In fact, they’re thinking of putting me in your fourth period government class.”

“We have computer lab fourth period,” Linda remarks.

“Oh shoot,” Artemis says, sounding not in the least bit disappointed. “My loss.” And she turns away from them, smiling to herself.

She’s rewarded for her moment of shining amicability with a ding from her laptop, and quickly clicks the program that caused it. It’s the credit card tracker she’s been running on Professor Zatara since last night, and it’s finally given her something. Fishing her phone from her pocket, she tells Zatanna to meet her at her car afterschool—she got a hit.

A hit for _4.45_ at a place called _The Magic Box_ , but a hit nonetheless.

* * *

“This is the place?” Zatanna sounds skeptical, staring up at the vibrant purple sign above them, on which red neon letters form _The Magic Box_. It looks simple enough from the outside, nothing too fancy or kitschy, but for the life of her, she can’t figure out what her father would be doing here at one-thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday, even bringing his little hobby for magic into account.

“Website said it’s a fortune teller shop,” Artemis explains, squinting at the sign and shielding her eyes against the sun. “They sell other magic-related rip-offs, but its main income seems to come from scheduled appointments.”

“Do you think they’ll tell us anything without one?” she sounds worried, but Artemis shrugs.

“Likely not. But it’s worth a shot.”

And in they go.

It’s early afternoon and bright outside, so stepping into the dark, dimly lit shop is a bit hard to adjust to for both girls. The bell above the door dings loudly behind them, but one one’s at the counter, which gives them time to look around. Candles, jewelry, a whole wall devoted to weird things in jars Artemis would rather not know the contents of, and stacks upon stacks of old books. Maroon curtains hang from the ceiling; along with sparkling string lights that dip down in several places so close the girls could touch them if they tried. At the very back of the shop is a cordoned off area, behind which lies a table and two chairs, all covered in dark silk sheets, with a crystal ball as a centerpiece.

But it’s the poster that really gets Artemis. “Why didn’t you tell me this is how you were paying for my services,” she jokes, because the woman in the painted-style advert for _Madam Sin’s; Reader of Tarots and Futures_ looks just like her, just a little older. Zatanna makes a face at her, elbowing her in the side.

“Very funny,” she says, before stepping forward to find the bell on the counter. A moment later, a small, spindly woman appears from the back. Her hair is plopped in a mess on the top of her head, and she’s wearing long, sparkling robes. Artemis cringes.

“Hello!” she says cheerfully, moving towards them. “Welcome to the Magic Box. How can I help you lovely ladies today?”

“Hi,” Zatanna says, smiling sweetly as she pulls out the picture of her father she stored in her purse. “We’re looking for my dad. I’m wondering if you’ve seen him?”

The woman narrows her eyes, examining the picture closely. “Mmm…,” she hums, looking pensive. “Hmm…”

“He was in here maybe three hours ago?” Artemis adds, her fingers closing around the printed credit card statement in her pocket. She wonders if it’ll help.

“Hmmm,” the woman says again, her head beginning to shake. “I am afraid I do not remember him.” Her nose wrinkles upwards, and she smiles in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But perhaps you could help me?”

The girls exchange looks, confused, and the lady steps forward, grasping Zatanna’s hand. “We see much business for Madame Sin here, but last few days, she has not come in. It leaves me sad, you see—sad, and with less money.”

“Are you suggesting we _pay_ you for information?” Zatanna looks affronted, tearing her hand away. The woman’s smile turns sour.

“I am a poor, old woman, running this business takes much effort,” she says. “Wretched woman left me all alone.”

Artemis almost has to admire the woman’s drive. As Zatanna’s mouth flaps open and shut, unable to form words for how disgusted she is, the blonde looks around, hunting for the cheapest thing in sight.

She finds it in a grab bin next to the cash register. A handful of small, rugged, carved wooden runes advertised as protection wards. The sign above them reads 4.45$, while the one on the register itself promotes a no tax rule. She snags one and waves it in front of the woman’s face. “I’ll buy this, and then you tell us what you know, alright?”

Her smile reaches her ears, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth. As she shuffles around to the cash register, she laughs. “You must have the gift, girl.” When Artemis frowns at her, shooting Zatanna an incredulous look, she winks slyly. “That is precisely what the man in your photo purchased.”

When Artemis hands her five dollars, she shakes her head, pointing at a sign on the register. “Credit only.”

“That explains why I got a hit on his card,” Artemis says, looking towards Zatanna, who nods, but still doesn’t look happy. So she focuses on the woman as she rings through the rune. “So, how about you tell me _precisely_ what you told the man we’re looking for?”

She flashes yellow teeth again. “He was looking for Madame Sin…”

* * *

Artemis turns right onto the street, following her phone’s GPS voice. Carefully, she and Zatanna scan the houses for the right number. After a moment, the latter speaks up. “Who just gives out someone’s address like that?”

Despite the woman at the Magic Box being entirely helpful once Artemis’s purchase went through, telling them Zatara had come in looking to speak with Madame Sin, and had been so adamant in finding her that she’d given him her home address, the girls remained suspicious. “Isn’t this like, a huge invasion of privacy?” Zatanna continues. “Or do fortune tellers normally invite house calls?”

Artemis snorts and nearly tells her how bad that sounds, but then she spots 1403 and pulls the car over, hugging the curb. She kills the engine, and looks over at Zatanna. “You ready for this?”

She frowns. “To see my dad and shake him until everything starts to spin because he left me for almost a week without word?” A grin splits her face, ear to ear. “Oh yes.”

So they clamber out, and Artemis manually locks the car to keep from drawing attention. She follows Zatanna to the door, and watches her knock once, twice, three times. In the seconds before they receive an answer, Artemis pieces it together. She thinks did a little while ago, but it comes to full fruition in her mind as the door swings open to reveal Madame Sin, the woman from the poster at The Magic Box, the one that looked remarkably like Zatanna. The one, Artemis thinks, who featured in the background of several of the photographs Constantine had in his motel room.

And the same woman from the picture kept in Zatara’s desk.

Her eyes widen, and her lips part in a soft ‘O’ shape, but it’s nothing compared to the look on Zatanna’s face. Her initial surprise quickly washes away, replaced by something deeper, something raw and confused and overwhelming. Tears fill her eyes, her bottom lip trembles, and her voice shakes when she says, disbelieving, “M-Mom?”

* * *

Artemis places the last box of shredded paper at the curb, wiping sweat from her brow. There are six other boxes like it, all with the words _trash_ scrawled in her slanted handwriting. Slowly, she makes her way back up to the office, dumps herself into her chair, and sighs loudly, happily, _finally_. The place looks neat, all the surfaces are clean, and the drawers and cabinets empty. It’s sterile, and almost like nothing ever occupied the space before her. For a moment, just a single, selfish moment, she considers walking out and never coming back.

But then she thinks about her mom and the bills that are piling up, and how much _fun_ she had helping Zatanna find her parents, how _happy_ the girl was and still is, a week after her world turned on its head. Carefully, she pulls a single file folder from the bottom left drawer, and flips it open on the desk.

She hasn’t written it all down yet, what happened after Sindella (not Madame Sin any longer) stepped out of her house and wrapped her arms around her daughter for the first time in eleven years. She hasn’t written out the things Zatanna’s parents told them about the pictures and about why the girl has spent more than half her life thinking her mother was dead. She hasn’t, because if she does, she’ll be calling it complete. And if she calls it complete, case closed, then she acknowledges that this _was_ a case—her first solo one, picked up by her and her alone, not handed down from her father or taken in his name. It will mean that she thinks she can do this herself.

Which is sort of silly, because Zatanna has paid her, and she’s made the folder with the photographs and credit card statements and a flyer picked up from The Magic Box, so by all counts, she’s already decided.

Hesitantly, she plucks a pen from the cup on her desk, turns to her notes page at the bottom of the stack, and starts to write.

It starts off simple, easy. Before Zatanna’s birth, her mother was a neuroscientist working at Star Labs, who’d been a part of a think tank for Project Medulla. The goal of the research project was to find a way to focus a previously untapped part of the brain storing unused energy. They were developing a device that would allow them to harness that energy, and use it to help people with learning difficulties, or brain disorders and more.

Artemis didn’t buy it when she told them this, seated across from the Zataras with their daughter. But Sindella insisted it was very experimental, very new and very _secret_. Somehow, the information about the project was leaked, along with the names of the participating scientists. Shortly after, the first photographs started showing up. Accompanying them were messages telling her to turn over her research, or face the consequences.

So, in order to protect her only child, she left in the dead of night. She let Zatanna grow up without a mother and believe she was dead, rather than have her face constant danger from mysterious threats. She left her family and life behind, and started anew somewhere else, living a low-key, quiet life. But she never let go entirely, not really. She visited, keeping her distance. She watched from afar as Zatanna grew, and as such, was caught in the background of several photographs that they were still taking and sending to her.

Artemis never told her how stupid she thought her choice was, she stayed quiet throughout the whole explanation, as Sindella told the girls that she grew tired of hiding, and when she found out Zatara had accepted the position at Bryant College and would be moving to town, moving so close to her it was going to be unavoidable that one day they’d cross paths, she rounded up the pictures, and sent them to him. She wrote him a letter, explaining everything, and told him where to find her.

But hadn’t gone to her, at first, Zatara filled in. He’d called up Constantine, wanting to know who’d sent the pictures to his wife, who’d threatened his daughter and family. When the detective had returned with very little in the way of leads, Zatara had deflated. At least, until he’d shown him the most recent photographs from several months past, and Zatara had easily identified the recurring woman as Sindella. He’d taken off after that, telling Constantine he had to go to her, seek her out. The rest, the girls already knew, having uncovered most of it themselves.

It’s been a week, and Zatanna has been visiting her mother at her shop every day after school, eager to make up for lost time, despite the potential danger. Constantine has agreed to continue looking into the photographs, which stopped coming when Sindella sent the lot to her husband. Zatara, meanwhile, has started his job at Bryant College, and according to his daughter, is a real hit.

As, apparently, is she.

Not with her old crowd, of course. Not with her sister’s, either. But two days after reuniting Zatanna with her parents, she walked into the girl’s washroom in the east hallway, and found sophomore Cassie Sandsmark waiting for her, looking nervous, and also looking to hire her to find whoever posted pictures of her dalliance with a certain boy at a certain party the weekend before. And then, in third period, Mal Duncan asked her to look into who swapped his drug test results with someone’s negatives and got him kicked off the football team, because there wasn’t any way he failed it.

By the time she made it to lunch with Zatanna, she knew something was up. Not just because of the handful of people looking to hire her help, but because there was a third person seated at their table. A redhead she’d seen a multitude of times, stashed in the back of the computer science lab, with thick-rimmed glasses, a messy, lopsided ponytail and a sleek, humming laptop glued to her fingertips.

She’d found out from a sheepish Zatanna that she’d had Barbara Gordon (the redhead and third lunch partner) set up a site for kids at the school seeking help. Help that she believed Artemis could provide. Artemis, of course, had flat out refused. She had more important things to deal with—like her mother, and bills, and avoiding the general populace. Besides, she’d thought, like anyone at the school wanted _her_ help. But then, hadn’t two individuals already asked her for it? Hadn’t Cassie and Mal both promised to pay for her services, as advertised?

Reluctantly, she’d admitted that maybe, just maybe, she could do it.

Artemis takes a deep breath as she completes the final sentence of the case file, snapping out of it, and stares at it for some time. “Giovanni Zatara was found and returned to his daughter, completing the case,” she reads, and then, sighing, she signs her name.

She’s had time to think on it since then, time and several dozen hits on her website. She’s had time for Zatanna to tell her how good she is at this, and her mother to tell her it would do her good. And she knows where she’s going to start. Not with Cassie or with Mal or any of the other people pooling in the forums Barbara set up.

Carefully, she pulls one of the photographs from the bottom of the case file, the one she’d recognized the first time she’d saw it, the one from the Fourth of July parade downtown.

She’s going to start with Zatanna, and whoever took this picture of her.

**Author's Note:**

> aka my referency little easter eggs:  
> \- the ‘only word a care about’ exchange is a line borrowed from the Avengers, and accompany a handful of references to Veronica Mars itself from marshmallows to car choices.  
> \- Sindella, Zatanna’s mother in the comics, seemingly died giving birth to her, but returned to her people and reappeared later in Z’s life. In addition, she possessed a special medulla jewel, a part of her brain that emanated a special type of energy, which was the inspiration for the brain project scenario.  
> \- Zatara, her father, was formerly a member of the All-Star Squadron (think like, early 80s because that’s how far I went hunting) which inspired the name for the Motel where he and John Constantine met, the latter being a close friend of his DC Comics counterpart.  
> \- there’s an additional ending scene which features Artemis discovering who took the photos of Zatanna, but I felt it was too cliffhanger-y for a Christmas gift, so it’s saved for later because I really really like this universe and have so many parallels to the show and ideas that I couldn’t fit into it that I’m likely going to revisit and continue building upon this idea


End file.
